Half and Half

Possible beginning, work in progress. May go for something else. Now too tired!




Remember, aishiella, what you made known,
What you arranged at the time of decision.
You were called Eir, the oldest of herbs,
you have power against three and against thirty,
you have power against poison and against infection,
you have power against the loathsome foe roving through the land.

Morgan half-hummed, half-sang the words from memory, sitting on a rock, bare feet in the stream and the breeze messing her tangled hair. The oak, the beech, all of them sang with the wind, but for the most part it was her, humming the tune rhythmically. It was a pleasant, early spring morning, and she was waiting. Many things were worth waiting for, and she had been waiting for years now, plying her trade as a herbalist, working for her food at the farms and foraging and fishing when she could.

Right at that moment, Morgan was contemplating what to make of the honey she had been given for helping one of the Aisens' prized cows give birth to handsome offspring. Obvious answer: she could use it in poultices and save some for tea in case guests arrived. Herself, she didn't use sweeteners that often. No, she remained one with what was and a stranger to what wasn't.

Of course, this one time she had tried to explain it to someone else, she hadn't been understood. A pity, that. But as it was, most people in the village (she wasn't sure about whether it was a hamlet or a village) had long since taken her to be a slightly strange character. It had been almost forty years past when a starved child had wandered to the old crone's cabin with no recollection of where she was from or who she was, but assuredly bloodied and wounded. Stabbed, actually.

A day later the menfolk found a man stabbed to death by the stream, and not far from there, a woman who appeared to have slit her wrists.

Morgan (so they named her: she couldn't remember her given name after the shock) took up to living with the crone, not playing with the other children very often but receiving pity and affection from the adults. They, of course, knew she wasn't entirely human, and naturally there was a bit of grumbling about it among the menfolk. The crone had always said it was show, that the women would chastise the men; this turned out to be accurate.

Her life, all told, had been happy aside from that childhood trauma. Some said the crone had tampered with her mind, some said she was one of the blessed fools, some thought she was living inside a dream. No matter what they thought, the fact was that Morgan was a watcher, thinker, doer. But not much of a talker. Azari the crone had been much the same, though for her own reasons, but tolerated and perhaps loved in a similar slightly perplexed manner as Morgan had been since her acceptance by village folk.

Recently, though, things had been quiet. It left her bored, wanting to mess about. Barefoot, as always, she moved over the stream, muttering more of the lore as she went on, intent on her route. It took her a quarter of a mile away, to where she knew to find one of her slightly more untraditional companions. It was the crone's fault.

"Ikoi! Ruia!" she called, digging into the pockets of her tunic as she came to the clearing, walking a path worn well by both her and crone, lowering her head as she gently twisted a fir branch out of her way. Once she saw the clearing in the dim of the tall evergreens, she had to admit surprise.

The two ravens were there, yes, but they also had company -- one that had offered them food.

Not startled but wary, he measured her with a long stare and a tense set of the shoulders. Morgan did the same. Mostly because he had a bloody knife in his hand and was seated some three feet away from the ravens.

"So, that's what they're called?" he finally said, warmly, watching Ikoi and Ruia, who cautiously pecked on a skinned rabbit's intestines.

Morgan said nothing. She watched the scene. The man said nothing either, opting to glance at her and then regard the ravens again before returning to what he had been doing; the rabbit. In due time, Morgan grew tired the game and approached to throw some of the dried berries she always had in her pocket. She was not the least bit intimidated by the man, proving that finishing her task and examining the ravens go about eating.

When the man still said nothing, she turned and left, returning to her private world of thoughts, not expecting to see him again. How curious, though, that the man had not insisted on trying to talk to her as most did out of nervousness borne out of her equally determined silence. Everything else about this man was secondary and to which she paid no attention. But that sort of courtesy (as she perceived it), lodged itself firmly in the thoughts.

Nonetheless, she returned to her rock to stay for a moment. The stream flowed past her until evening and, eventually, Morgan left it to flow on its own. Her intention was to sleep in a familiar old hammock outside what was now her cabin, comforted by the knowledge that Azira the crone lay in restful sleep only six feet to the north, under a bed of flowers.

Dawn arrived as punctually as always for Morgan. The mosquito net had done its job and she had rested well, finding the slight swing of the hammock oddly comforting. For as long as she had lived here, with and without Azira the crone, she had slept outside, weather permitting; wintertimes, the hammock was inside. Yet the rocking motion that every change in position, even whilst half-awake, soothed her.

This morning, however, she awoke to find the man from yesterday staring at the cabin. Morgan could not quite put an adjective to the gray-haired, green-eyed man's expression. Wistful, mournful, sad?

Before she could shake off her sleepiness, his eyes were staring at her. "Well met again. I was told, some time ago, that... there was a physicker here. Azira."

"Azira?" she asked, uttering her first direct words at him whilst rubbing her eyes. She stayed in the hammock. "She has been dead for many years."

This information made Morgan's guest think for a while. Then he sighed, put down his satchel and backpack. Morgan watched carefully as he sat down on the cabin's porch, then extricated herself from the hammock, slowly.

He sighed again, but then frowned as he examined her features. And then his eyes widened. "Morgan?" he whispered.

Morgan shrugged, stretched and looked toward the outhouse. "Yes."

The man was silent.

So was Morgan, who went to relieve herself, returning to only find the man staring at the ground. Unpertrubed, she went inside the cabin and made tea and porridge. Not once did she look outside, but once she returned with her breakfast, Morgan found that the man was still there, staring at the ground.

Though not much of a people person, and not one to care if someone was human or otherwise, she made her observations. This man looked young, was of mixed heritage, but seemed older -- and he was presently looking very guilty. The last bit did not interest her at all.

Morgan believed in letting things go as they went. A cow has died? Well, then a cow has died. A calf has been born? Well, a calf has been born. Et cetera.

Yet, something... something about this other one was off. She could tell they shared the mixed heritage, but even so.

Everything was not quite right.

This in mind, Morgan sat next to him and began to eat her porridge. He still didn't react, not until she asked matter-of-factly: "Have you eaten?"

This seemed to snap the other out of his state of thoughts and memories. "Oh. Yes. Thank you."

Morgan handed over her plate. It was still half-full. He thanked her again.